So swims the River
by J.Dax
Summary: Jayne contemplates his previous attachments to rivers, and how River is like the element she is named for. The summary really doesn't do the story much justice. A deep fic, delves into Jayne's past a little bit. Short but interesting. Could be taken as a


Disclaimer: Don't own the Gorram show, so don't go gettin' any high-flutin' idears about suein' an tha like.

A/N: My first Firefly fic...I've watched the show on and off, so I hope you can forgive any inconsistencies. Thanks.

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When you thought about it, her name suited her: River. Because when she babbled whatever incoherent nonsense popped into her head, her voice sounded like a liquid stream; rushing water that cascaded over your hearing and you could drown in it if the current was too rough. 

I'm not much of a poetic type…actually, I am, but no one would ever guess it. The reason I didn't do too well getting learned in school was because my mind always wandered and I'd start thinking the strangest things about random stuff. Focusing on different subjects and lingering my thoughts upon them, like the river that swirled along cozily in the grassy country banks near the farm where I grew up.

Everyone said I was daft and never paid no attention to anything, they said I was born with a head full of water that was always flowing in whichever direction it wanted and never slowing down long enough to get it's bearings.

I used to think that I was like that river. Moody and unpredictable, and perfectly content to be so, just floating on my course. In fact, I was positive right up until the time I got my first wound that my blood ran clear. I was kind of disappointed to see that it was scarlet as brick, but I got to wash the cut in the river, and that rinsed away the awful red color that made me sick in my heart.

She is like that too, River is.

I don't like killing people as much as some think I do. Most of what I do, I do out of necessity, and most think I'm cold and ruthless, but I'm just protecting myself like everyone else out there. I hate spilling blood. And I when I eventually have to, I'm glad that I've got a River around now to cleanse the scene out of my mind.

All I've got to do is sit with her for a while and then I can forget it all.

No one thinks I like her…I don't even think that she thinks I like her either.

I'm always yelling and griping when she's around, but that's because I get all panicked. When you've been in the mercenary type business as long as I have, you develop a sense for fear, and she's constantly afraid. So I'm afraid with her. Because her being on high alert all the time gets me edgy, and snapping about is just how I protect myself.

I've always been in tune with the river…always empathetic to it…why should it be any different with her?

I can sense her moods and she's mostly scared, so I can't help but be scared also.

She's not so bad when it's just one person with her in turns, so I'm calm when we're alone together. I just sit myself right down beside her in or on whatever, corner, catwalk, and box she's found to perch for a while, and I don't talk. But sometimes she does.

"It's dangerous to wade in the river at night…you should never go swimming alone" she mumbles to me now as I sit next to her on the metal catwalk and swing my legs over the edge as she's doing.

I don't reply to her ramblings, I find it easier not too.

She turns her intent face to gaze at me and her eyes are alight with mischief. "But he doesn't care, the moon is out and the river beckons…he can't resist her"

I suspect she's waiting for some sort of reply, so I answer without understanding the riddle posed, "Maybe he knows the river won't harm him"

"He was born of the river," she says, and I detect agreement in her tone. Although I'm not entirely sure what she's agreeing to.

She turns her attention back to some vacant spot below us and I do the same, but she isn't finished speaking.

"They are alike and nothing alike…he is man; man walks and runs, she is river; the river drifts and shifts. Both of them swim…they swim together, and when they do, there is no telling which is man and which is river. He is immersed in her and she encompasses him…they are a separate whole" she whispers.

My mind receives a shock when I realize that I understand what she said. And I'm even more surprised when I feel her fingers lightly brush my hand, and then close around it tentatively. I look at her, but her face is still turned away, she's focused on a world of her own that I'm not privy to.

I always thought the river was a spectacularly beautiful element: deep and crystal, and seemingly prismatic when the sun glinted upon it. I used to love dipping my hand in the water and run itthrough the golden threads I found reflected there on warm summer days. It felt exhilarating to be able to catch the sun and weave it between my fingers until it rippled into the pattern I liked.

I wonder if River has ever caught the sun, and I weave my fingers in between hers, almost unaware of what I'm doing. If someone finds us like this, me holding her hand and all, I know I'll either be shot or gawked at. But it's been so long since I was around a river…since I felt the river…

"The river beckons him, will he return to her?" she says, breaking the not long settled silence and again bringing her eyes to bore into mine. She smiles gently, and leans forward to brush her nose against my cheek.

I become exceedingly startled and pull back from her even as she eases away. I'm suddenly feeling much too comfortable being in her presence and I have to release her hand.

She looks at me, her face completely neutral, "Does he not wish to swim?" she says on the note of a musical tonebefore answering her own question, "No…the current is too quick…the water is black in the night and not lit by any moon…she is not clear like the nights he remembers…man no longer wishes to be with river"

She turns her attentions back to a vacant spot on the ground below us, and although she appears serene, I feel loss pouring like a steam of rivulets from her heart, a heart that must be like the river because I never feel anything unless I am near the river. I shiver from the wet mist of her damp cascade, trying to reconcile myself not to reach out to her.

"The river has more control over its path than they realize" River whispers encouragingly.

I shift my position so that my body is fully on the catwalk and I'm facing her with my legs spread. I leaned forward and pull my watery companion in my lap so that I can embrace her. And I know this is all nonsense because someone is going to catch us like this…in this impossible snuggle, because it's impossible to hold a river next to one's body, and it's impossible that I feel compelled to even attempt it.

She settles comfortably on her side with her feet tucked under her lithe frame and her knees curled on top of my thigh while her head and upper body pillow against my stomach and chest.

"The river will swim with the man" River continues her mutterings, "And the man will once again feel the river…and neither will be able to tell which is which"


End file.
